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I pledge her not in any cheerful cup,
Nor care to sit beside her where she sitsAh pity hint it not in human tones, But breathe it into earth and close it up
With secret death forever, in the pits
Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones
LADY, let the rolling drums
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands:
Lady, let the trumpets blow,
HOME they brought him slain with spears.
All alone she sits and hears
Echoes in his empty hall,
Sounding on the morrow.
The Sun peep'd in from open field,
"O hush, my joy, my sorrow."
ON A MOURNER.
NATURE, so far as in her lies,
Imitates God, and turns her face
Counts nothing that she meets with base,
Fills out the homely quickset-screens,
The swamp, where hums the dropping snipe, With moss and braided marish-pipe;
And on thy heart a finger lays,
Saying, "Beat quicker, for the time
And murmurs of a deeper voice,
And when the zoning eve has died
6. And when no mortal motion jars
The blackness round the tombing sod, Thro' silence and the trembling stars
Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod And Virtue, like a household god
Promising empire; such as those
That once at dead of night did greet